Chapter 20 – He Wove a Monstrous Lie

The rain gradually softened, shifting from a torrential downpour into a lingering drizzle, delicate as newly picked white tea buds drifting through the night sky.

In a narrow alley, the scene was utterly surreal.

A youth with crimson lips and pearly teeth sat calmly in a wheelchair, chin resting on one hand, exuding a sense of serene leisure. Around him, faint azure currents swirled rapidly, intertwining around his body like a microcosmic cycle of energy. The drizzling rain that fell from the heavens was torn asunder before it could even reach him.

Everyone stood frozen, dumbfounded. Even those most familiar with Lu Fan—Ning Zhao, Yi Yue, and Ni Yu, the three maids—were struck by disbelief. In this moment, their young master seemed like a stranger—lofty, untouchable, as if elevated far beyond the realm of the mortal.

They had never felt this way before.

Lu Fan remained seated in his wheelchair, his gaze indifferent as he looked upon Han Lianxiao, who knelt prostrate before him.

Han Lianxiao was a grandmaster. If it came down to raw physical might and blood qi, a hundred Lu Fans would not compare to one Han Lianxiao. But Lu Fan did not rely on brute force—he wielded spiritual energy.

He had cultivated the Yellow Rank High-Grade technique Daoist Spirit Conduction Art. As Lu Fan activated it, streams of spiritual energy wove themselves into a veil, naturally exuding a forceful pressure.

Lu Fan called it spirit pressure—a dominance born from a cultivator's very path, an inherent suppression over those who had not stepped upon it.

Of course, this pressure was possible only because Lu Fan had instantly unleashed fifty wisps of spiritual energy. Without sufficient spiritual reserves, such overwhelming pressure could never be formed.

Take Ning Zhao, for instance. Though her Qi Pill contained two wisps of spiritual energy, they served only to enhance her combat abilities and provided no real spirit pressure. Even if there was some, its effect on a grandmaster like Han Lianxiao would be negligible.

Han Lianxiao lay on the ground, rainwater soaking through his straw coat, seeping into his garments. He tried to rise against the crushing force. Every inch of his body felt shackled with invisible chains, as though ten-thousand-pound stones pinned him down. Even the simplest movements were unbearably strenuous.

Spirit pressure… from a cultivator? Mere trickery?

Han Lianxiao's spirit reeled.

The son of Lu Changkong, City Lord of North Luo, a cripple no less—how could he possess such techniques? This wasn't something a mere martial artist could grasp! Not even high-tier grandmasters with eight or nine echoes might manage it!

With great effort, Han Lianxiao lifted his face from the puddle. Once elegant and debonair, he now appeared utterly disheveled—his hair soaked and clinging to his pallid face, his once-proud form reduced to ruin.

He tilted his head upward, enduring the spirit pressure, trying to see Lu Fan's expression. But all he could glimpse were those entwining, misty-blue currents. Lu Fan, enshrouded in them, appeared faint, distant—like an immortal from a painted scroll.

"You…" Han Lianxiao's pupils contracted.

Lu Fan rested his chin on one hand, the other tapping lightly upon the thin woolen blanket draped over his lap. He cast a casual glance at Han Lianxiao.

A grandmaster with five echoes should've been formidable. Perhaps he might adapt to the spirit pressure in time. But this was the first manifestation of fifty threads of spirit energy in this world—Han Lianxiao could not possibly adjust so swiftly.

What would it feel like to endure the pressure of a hundred wisps? A thousand? Ten thousand?

Suddenly, Lu Fan felt a twinge of fantastical wonder.

In the distance, Ning Zhao broke free from the mechanical flute trap. Clutching her cicada-wing sword, her hair slightly disheveled, traces of blood marked her snowy skin—wounds left by her struggle.

She remained silent, guilt and self-reproach brewing in her heart.

She had been careless. Relying too much on her spiritual energy, she underestimated a martial grandmaster. As a result, she had been trapped—placing her lord in grave peril. If not for Lu Fan's miraculous display of power, the consequences would have been unimaginable.

Just as Han Lianxiao had said—this secluded alley, in the dead of night—had he slain Lu Fan, who would've known? Even if Lu Changkong investigated later, Han Lianxiao would've vanished from North Luo City, free to roam the world unbound.

Water splashed as Ning Zhao stepped forward, her sword tip dragging.

"Young master, how shall we deal with him?" she asked coldly, her tone devoid of emotion.

Lu Fan rested his chin lightly, glanced at Han Lianxiao, and replied without hesitation or delay.

"Kill him."

At those calm words, Nie Changqing's body trembled. Nie Shuang clutched tightly to his leg.

Han Lianxiao, pinned by the spirit pressure, widened his eyes. He opened his mouth, attempting to speak—

Pfft!

A blade thin as a cicada's wing pierced through his chest. Crimson blood spilled out, pooling beneath his body.

So decisive—without the slightest pause!

Han Lianxiao coughed blood, disbelief and unwillingness still burning in his eyes.

The world had been deceived.

The young lord of North Luo was no naïve scholar obsessed with Confucian texts—he wielded unfathomable power and ruthless determination!

He had crafted a magnificent lie.

What exactly is he after…?

Han Lianxiao's head drooped. Even in death, he glared at Lu Fan with stubborn defiance. Finally, he fell silent within the blood-soaked earth.

Nie Changqing dropped the butcher's knife, his expression complex and shocked.

Han Lianxiao—the ninth-ranked of the Daoist Sect… was dead.

A grandmaster with five echoes, unmatched in the martial world unless sages intervened, had perished silently in North Luo City.

Nie Changqing stood mute, emotions in turmoil. This assassination attempt upon him had ended… but there was no joy in his heart, only an ever-deepening chill.

Han Lianxiao's death might well be the spark that ignites a greater inferno.

In the coming days, the might of the Daoist Sect could descend upon North Luo, one by one. The Great Zhou was in turmoil; the Grand Preceptor had his hands full, and martial artists of the Hundred Schools had grown increasingly bold and lawless.

No one understood better than Nie Changqing the ruthlessness and tyranny of those from the Daoist Sect.

Lu Fan withdrew his spiritual energy, ceasing the Daoist Spirit Conduction Art. This Blood-Moving Technique, refined through deduction, had evolved into a Yellow Rank High-Grade spiritual cultivation method. It could condense spiritual energy and manifest spirit pressure. Sadly, beyond that, Lu Fan couldn't cultivate qi in the same way as others.

"Many thanks to Young Master Lu for saving our lives," Nie Changqing said, pale-faced as he approached with Nie Shuang.

Nie Shuang's wide eyes gleamed with awe and a hint of reverence. The image of Lu Fan suppressing the mighty Han Lianxiao with a mere flick of his hand had shaken his young heart to the core.

Ning Zhao said nothing. She drew her sword, wiped the blood clean with her sleeve, then quietly sheathed it and stood behind Lu Fan.

Yi Yue also silently rose, visibly shaken. The clash with the grandmaster had left her deeply rattled—she hadn't even possessed the strength to protect her lord.

Lu Fan glanced at Nie Changqing.

"You seek peace," he said, "but others may not allow you that luxury."

"The weak have no right to speak of peace."

"Only strength is absolute. With it, the entire world becomes your sanctuary."

Nie Changqing trembled, saying nothing.

Lu Fan was right. No matter where he ran, the Daoist Sect would never let him—or Nie Shuang—go.

"But that's only true if you truly become strong," Lu Fan added.

Nie Changqing inhaled deeply. His wounds stung as water seeped in, but he paid no mind. Pain was an old companion.

"But… my tendons are severed. My qi and blood barely function…"

He looked at his trembling hands, despair in his eyes.

"You truly treat the immortal gift you were granted as if it were worthless," Lu Fan said, fingers tapping lightly against his thin blanket, his tone casual, teasing, like a conversation between friends.

Those words struck Nie Changqing like thunder, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"Of course," Lu Fan said, smiling. "The method of immortal cultivation exists… but you still lack the key to begin the path."

"Did you see the spirit pressure just now?"

"Do you want to learn it?"

"Follow me. I will teach you."

Lu Fan reclined in his wheelchair, voice lazy and serene.

Nie Changqing's heart was a storm. He had told no one of the immortal fate he received. And yet, Lu Fan had spoken of it with perfect clarity.

Could Lu Fan be… one of the Six Immortals?

No… that couldn't be. The Six Immortals were whole of limb—and Lu Fan…